I came home this afternoon just at twilight, and, feeling tired after my
walk, a little cold too, I first crouched before the fire, then let
myself drop lazily upon the hearthrug. I had a book in my hand, and
began to read it by the firelight. Rising in a few minutes, I found the
open page still legible by the pale glimmer of day. This sudden change
of illumination had an odd effect upon me; it was so unexpected, for I
had forgotten that dark had not yet fallen. And I saw in the queer
little experience an intellectual symbol. The book was verse. Might not
the warm rays from the fire exhibit the page as it appears to an
imaginative and kindred mind, whilst that cold, dull light from the
window showed it as it is beheld by eyes to which poetry has but a poor,
literal meaning, or none at all?